


Damaged

by ReverendKilljoy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Masturbation, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 7,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21523333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReverendKilljoy/pseuds/ReverendKilljoy
Summary: An original work exploring the power dynamics between a professor and a student, in which people are not always what they first seem to be.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	1. Subjunctive

“Professor T., I think if it wasn’t for you, I’d never make it through the week.” With this line, the tall, slender teen breezed into his office, dropping her overweight book bag with a dull thud, and then dropping her body with a nearly identical sound into the distressed old leather of his office sofa.

“‘It weren’t,’ Amira,” he replied absently, still squinting over the tops of his wire-framed glasses at the online grade book. “You mean, ‘If it weren’t for…’ Subjunctive.”

Amira blew absently at a strand of the straight dark hair that covered one deep brown eye. The strand promptly settled again over her face, and with the other eye she peered at him suspiciously.

“I’m never sure if you’re really correcting me or if you just trust me not to look this stuff up and catch you. I thought you were going to be done with grades by now.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and pursed his lips thoughtfully. He then sighed slightly and looked at her with a lopsided grin. When he smiled like this, his black and silver mustache formed an exaggerated parenthesis, echoed by a dimple that creased his cheek. The other side never dimpled, which made all of his smiles somewhat off-center.

“I should be done. I would be done, if not for this recurring interruption. My current work is constantly sidetracked by the conversational requirements of a student. A former student.”

“Favorite former student,” she amended helpfully, reaching into her jacket pocket for a Twizzler, which she proceeded to twirl around in the corners of her mouth. She showed idle disregard for the intense awareness that tugged the corners of his eyes down every time she pursed her lips around the strawberry licorice.

“More like former favorite student,” he groused, turning back to the grade book, completely forgetting whatever he had been working on. He knew it was no use. Amira could always be counted on to make him smile, to make him proud, and to make him late for whatever he was doing. It was a hallmark of their rather odd relationship. He gave up on grading and closed the program.

“I still can’t sleep right,” she went on, oblivious to his frustration, or perhaps slightly proud of her ability to cause it. Amira, at 19, still enjoyed the surprising influence she could exert over a much older, ostensibly more mature man like Professor Tarmichael. Whenever she caught him trying not to look at her shining black hair, or the way her dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled her high cheek-boned smile, whenever she caught him she felt a faint rush of feminine power, which was still a new sensation to her.

As usual, once she had demanded his full attention, she withdrew slightly, drawing her knees up and planting her heels on his beat-up leather sofa. Her shoes, mismatched grey and purple Chuck Taylor sneakers, lay scuffed off on the floor, and her toes wriggled expressively in her red and black striped socks. Drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around her crossed shins, she hugged herself in a posture both protective and provocative. Her breasts flattened against her knees, the bare glimpse of cleavage hinted at by her black v-neck t-shirt deepening, the more mature flare of her hips exaggerated somewhat by her raised legs. Her deep purple vintage jeans gapped away from her shirt at her sides when she sat this way, exposing a pair of striking pale crescents of her hips.

Professor Tarmichael looked away, gathering his thoughts for a moment, then looked back to the young woman still slurping with a total lack of concern for propriety on her Twizzler. He decided for a direct approach.

“Was there something you wanted?” That came out more harshly than he had intended. “I mean, is there something on your mind today or are you just hiding out here from real work?”

“I can’t sleep!” she repeated, slowly and dramatically falling sideways, still with knees drawn up, on to her side on the sofa. “My roommates are crazy and their boyfriends are loud and gross and it drives me insane.”

“Have you talked to your Resident Advisor?” This was something he could do, Tarmichael thought. Counsel, advise. Mentor. Provide guidance with emotional detachment. Safe, reassuring, appropriate.

“Steffi’s boyfriend is my RA! When he’s not walking around the room in his nasty tightey-whiteys, he’s teaching her to play the bassoon. I mean fuck, who plays the bassoon at 1 AM?”

“Hey,” he cautioned belatedly at her profanity. She looked abashed but continued.

“I have to find somewhere I can study and write and sleep without all the drama. Maybe somewhere near campus so I can take the shuttle or bike my way in.” She yawned, and stretched languidly out. “Sorry. Sleepy.”

He went back to organizing his papers for the last class of the day, listening to her complaints growing more occasional and intermittent. When he finished, he realized she’d been quiet for some time.

Her eyes were closed, her old fashioned black frame glasses had slid to the end of her nose, and her soft pink lips were slightly parted. She was curled up, compactly sleeping on his sofa, a soft buzzing sound just audible with each breath like a kitten purring. 

She was, taken for all in all, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and his heart ached to see her that way. Regretfully, he moved to wake her, going so far as reaching out his hand but unable to bring himself to touch her, so vulnerable and trusting as she was. He stood, a foot away, his hand extended but his fingers curling back way from her warm pale skin, her dark silky hair.

“Amira?” His whisper was harsh in his ears, but he tried again minutely more loudly. “Amira, hey?”

She stretched and wriggled, seeking comfort on the couch, and he caught her glasses as they fell off the end of her nose. He set them on the small overloaded table next to the couch, and grabbed an old knot blanket from the end of the couch. He draped it gently over her, tenderly, almost reverently, all the while feeling old and dirty and crass, yet protective and tender as well.

When at last he could delay going to his late class no longer, he stopped watching her sleep. He placed a post it note next to her glasses explaining that he locked the office door, but she could let herself out any time, and that he would check back with her in 90 minutes when the lecture class was over.


	2. There Was No Woman on My Couch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarmichael receives a friendly(?) warning from a colleague.

“Hey, Tarmichael.”

“Maitland.”

“I went by your office looking for you last Thursday.” The older man leaned on the doorframe, looking appraisingly at Tarmichael.

“Uh, yes?”

“You were out.” Again the sidelong glance, the measured silence.

“I have that Chivalry and Romance lecture series Thursday nights, Rob.” Tarmichael was gathering his papers and preparing to leave early for a change. He had an appointment to keep off campus.

“Right, right.” Maitland sucked air through his teeth for a moment then said, “So I came by your office, and there was a woman there.”

“A woman?”

“On your couch.”

Tarmichael nodded in understanding. “No, that was a student.”

“One of your students was on your couch? A woman student? Don’t you worry about how that looks?” Maitland obviously had been leading up to this, as he seemed thrilled at the idea that Tarmichael would be uncomfortable.

“She’s not my student, Rob. She’s an advisee. Why, is there some problem?”

“No, no, not at all.” Maitland grinned, a wicked, unfriendly grin. “Still, you have to see how that might look. Young girl. Late night. Asleep, everyone else had gone from the department.”

“I’m sure if anything inappropriate had been going on, it might have been a problem. Of course, since I was teaching and you were there, I know everything must have been okay.”

Tarmichael’s cool tone shut Maitland down, and with a shrug, the older professor stepped aside to let Tarmichael lock up.

“I’m just saying, is all,” Maitland said weakly as Tarmichael passed and headed for his car, the conversation already being pushed out of his memory. 

Tarmichael was whistling as he headed for his distressed old car, and he did not see the long look Maitland gave his back as he left.


	3. A Little Drunk a Little, Drunk a Little Drunk.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artistic talent, poor decision-making, and squarish hips.

“Thanks for coming. It means a lot to me. I mean, I don’t really know what, you know, why all these people are here or anything.”

Amira stood, nervously shifting from side to side, with her head down and her long hair pulled back from her angular, expressive face. Her turquoise gown, a modestly cut cocktail dress that bared a lot more of her shoulders than she normally showed, slowly twirled as her weight shifted from one foot to the other.

Tarmichael, an untouched plastic cup of white wine growing warm in one hand, raised the other to lift her chin, the soft skin electric, the proximity of his hand to her lips more intoxicating than any liquor.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Look around. They’re here to see your work.”

Indeed, the little campus gallery was fairly crowded for a student show, especially one prominently featuring an underclassman. Faculty, family, students, and a few critics milled about, crushing out their forbidden cigarettes in the plastic wine cups and gesturing excitedly as they discussed the fourteen small framed block prints that made up Amira’s portion of the show. They all seemed excited and interested.

“It looks like it’s going well,” Tarmichael added. He saw Maitland, standing by the dean of the art school, eying him from across the room. Without realizing it, Tarmichael lowered his hand away from Amira’s face. She sensed his discomfort, and instinctively she steered him so his body blocked her somewhat from the rest of the room, her hand on his arm easily guiding him, partly placing his body between his young companion and his older peer.

“Do you really think they like me?” 

Her need for acceptance was so strong that he had to put a hand on her shoulder reassuringly. The contact with the bare skin shocked him and his words stumbled.

“Are you,” he began, then paused, confused. “Your work. It’s not about liking you, it’s about your work, and I’d say they are as amazed as I am. I’ve told you, you have a real gift.”

“I’m so glad you came. This makes me crazy. Thank you.”

He almost blushed. “Sure thing. Listen, I want to go say hello to a few people I know. Can I introduce you?”

She shook her head. “I need to get something to drink. My mouth feels like something growing at the bottom of my gym bag.”

With an indulgent smile, Tarmichael went over to mingle with a few of his seldom seen colleagues from the visual arts department. It helped him regain a little perspective, hearing them talk about the maturity and complexity of Amira’s work, the depth of emotion it conveyed. It was nice to confirm that others saw something special in the young woman, that it was not just his idle middle-aged crush swaying his judgment. She really was something unique and wonderful.

When he caught up with her, she was off to one side, in what would have been the corner of a room with corners. In front of her on a stand was a serving tray littered with empty cups. In her hand was a cup with the residue of the cheap white wine the department served at these affairs. When he approached, she unsteadily turned to look at him, and then deliberately looked at the cup in her hand. She slowly and carefully placed it on the tray with the others.

“I think I might be drunk a little. A little drunk. Drunk a little.” She grinned. “Hey, Professor T., that works either way, doesn’t it?”

“Amira,” he sighed, quickly looking around to see who had noticed her behavior, “how many of those did you have?”

She stared with comical deliberation at the tray full of empty cups, her lips moving as she counted them.

“All of them?” she asked brightly. She quickly frowned. “I don’t feel… can we go home now please?”

“Damn it,” Tarmichael muttered, steering the intoxicated young woman to the nearest exit, trying to act casual as she quietly sang to herself.

“A little drunk a little, drunk a little drunk. A little drunk a little, drunk a little drunk.”

Across the gallery, Maitland turned to his companion, a matronly mathematics research fellow with squarish hips but spectacular cleavage. She couldn’t help but notice the smile on his face.

“Something amusing, Robert?” she asked, admiring the way his wolfish features lit up when he smiled that way.

“No, just noticing how delicious you look tonight, Marjorie,” he lied smoothly and softly. “What do you say we finish the evening back at my apartment? This wine is rubbish. I’m sure we can do better.”

She allowed herself an almost girlish blush. “What a delightful idea,” she agreed quietly, almost licking her lips in anticipation. 

The evening was exceeding all expectations for the both of them.


	4. To Reach the End of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Underage drunk and an old Volvo wagon. What's a man to do?

As he sat behind the wheel of his decades-old Volvo wagon, Tarmichael found that his body was slow to respond even as his mind was racing. He’d loaded Amira into the car successfully, and once they’d left the campus, he’d realized he had no idea where to go.

“I could take you home, I mean, back to your dorm,” he said, not expecting a reply. After drinking too much, too quickly, Amira had moved straight from tipsy to comatose. At least she wasn’t a combative drunk like his ex, he thought.

The dorm was not a realistic option, he knew. Not only could he not count on her roommates to take care of her, but there was the issue of a much older professor dropping off a minor under the influence and just driving off. Unacceptable.

He just as plainly could not just take her to his apartment. What would that look like?

“Good morning, Amira. I got you liquored up and brought you home, hope you don’t mind waking up in the only bed…” He blinked rapidly and set that idea aside as well.

Finally, he drove a short way towards the edge of the city, searching for a vaguely remembered location. Once he arrived, he borrowed Amira’s ID from her bag, and left her in the locked car for a few minutes, alone, while he made arrangements. Then he returned, and slowly pulled around to the side of the building away from the freeway.

Once parked, with a keycard in one hand, he used his other hand to guide the barely mobile Amira to the door. He opened the door, and led her inside. It took him almost an hour to reach the end of the night, by which time the sky to the east was already tinged with grey of the oncoming dawn. At last, he rested.


	5. Impressive Volume, Rhythmic Complexity and Tonal Range

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleeping... well, we'll go with "Beauty," awakens.

Amira woke in stages, sliding first into a kind of dully aware darkness, then gradually feeling life return to her muscles, cramped on one side from sleeping with her head resting on the shoulder of one partly raised arm. As she shifted, blood flow resumed to the fingertips of that arm, bringing needles of sensation dancing back and forth coldly along the numb expanse.

When she tried to open her eyes, the room remained stubbornly dark and disorienting. Gone was the always present glow of her computer screen, gone the harsh strip of light shining from the common room where Steffi should be blatting away on her bassoon.

She sat up, cautious, and became instantly aware of three more things. Her bladder was alarmingly full, a physical alarm that her subconscious had apparently snoozed several times already based on its current urgency. Second, she was wearing something other than her pajamas. It smelled like a man. Not bad, kind of musky in a well-soaped way, but definitely masculine. And finally, there was someone snoring like a chainsaw hitting a roofing nail, about an arm’s length away from her in the dark.

“Well, fuckety fuck,” she whispered, surprised at the aching hoarseness of her throat and her dry lips. She must have been drinking, something she had not really mastered despite having started before she reached high school.

As her eyes adjusted, she saw a figure, familiar and reassuring despite the potentially alarming circumstances, seated just across from her bed. Professor Tarmichael, glasses on, necktie askew, but fully clothed sat in what appeared to be a decent motel chair, one elbow on the desk, his chin in his hand. Snoring of impressive volume, rhythmic complexity and tonal range emerged from somewhere around his Adam’s apple.

Careful not to wake him, she slid from the bed, and towards what she prayed with increasing fervor was the bathroom. Once inside, she closed the door and found the light.

Oh, cruelty, thy name is direct fluorescent light. Her hair was a tangle, her eyes red, and her face pale and blotchy. She had wrinkle marks from the pillowcase and her sweatshirt on one side of her face, and a cracked lip from drooling on her pillow. Her tongue was slickly green, her teeth had neatly knitted, individual sweaters, or so it felt. When she sat to relieve herself, she noted that she was no longer wearing stockings, but she was wearing her panties and someone else’s oversize Harry Potter sweatshirt with the badge of Gryffindor over the heart.

She peed, the noise thunderous in the small, tiled lavatory, and as the painful pressure relieved, she sank wearily down to lean against the sink edge. The porcelain was cool and almost reassuring.

While washing up and rinsing her mouth with a washcloth, the best she could do with the available materials, she briefly wondered what had happened to her stockings. They’d never been worn before.

She turned out the light, and counted twenty to let her eyes adjust. Stepping again into the darkened room, she considered, what must have happened. To one side of the sleeping yet vigilantly postured Tarmichael, there was a neat stack of folded dress, bag, and, yes, stockings. She regarded him fondly. He really was a thoughtful guy, despite his distracted fumbling.

Moving to him, she carefully slid his tie out from under his collar, and placed his glasses on the table. Looking down, she was encouraged to see that at some point he had slipped off his shoes, leaving him in an oxford shirt and khaki trousers. With a mental crossing of fingers, she slipped her hands around his arm and lifted, finding he readily stood, head nodding.

With a quick pivot, she was easing him down again, letting gravity and his superior height carry him down across the bed, at something of an angle but generally oriented in the conventional head to headboard configuration. When his face hit the pillow, he rolled, still nodding and murmuring, onto his side, and his breathing calmed, the snoring reduce to a moderate rumble.

Reaching under the sweatshirt, his sweatshirt, she took care of the last item of discomfort, threading her bra out through the sleeve to join the pile of clothes on the desk. That task accomplished, she carefully crawled over the sleeping Tarmichael, sliding her legs under the blankets, and pulling his arm around her, finally working her body backwards against his. In this fashion, she returned to sleep, peaceful, untroubled, wrapped in his one arm and the happy smell of him in her nose, the rumble of his breath along her spine, the warmth of his body an embracing comfort.

Amira slept, and did not dream.


	6. How Do You Unring a Bell?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Goodbye" remains unspoken.

Tarmichael woke suddenly, downshifting rapidly into wakefulness like a VW Rabbit with a bad clutch. He was quickly aware that one arm was asleep from having been heavily slept on, not by himself alone but rather as a pillow for someone else.

When he opened his eyes, the room sprang into frighteningly precise clarity. The light streaming around the inadequate drapes clearly showed the slightly seedy expanse of the Motel 6 single room. The woman sleeping on his arm had dark hair, thick rich waves of it, and it tickled his beard and the end of his nose, with an aroma like lilacs and baby powder and something that he recalled after a moment from his college days, the powder fresh smell of day old Secret. Though perhaps not strong enough for a man, it most certainly was made for a woman, based on the way her body was pressed against his. If only she were a woman, and not a girl.

He sat up, cautious, trying to slide his arm away from her without waking her. She was so small, so delicate, compared to his gross form, his every move seemed clownish and exaggerated. The flesh of her thighs, the only slightly plump and full flesh left on her slender frame, was pressed against his thighs, so that through his Dockers he could feel every inch. As he moved, she rolled slowly onto her stomach, breaking the delicious and terrible contact of their bodies, freeing the pressure where she had been pressed too tightly to really allow blood flow to work its will.

“Well, shit,” he whispered, sad and incomplete when her body rolled away from his. Whatever exactly had happened, the lines that were already so twisted between them must have been crossed, or erased, and he was lost alone, next to her on the bed, wondering what on earth he should do.

Tarmichael realized, looking at Amira and watching her breathing slowly next to him, that he had been filled every day with longing, but he had long since given up trying to figure out what he was longing for. And now, here it was, here she was, unlooked for, unready, almost welcome.

How could he ever take his old life back, now, having been here? How do you unring a bell?

He left her sleeping in his sweatshirt, with her clothes laid out neatly on the desk with her glasses and her purse. He set the key card, and the cash receipt for the room, next to her clothes. After some fretful rumination, he put forty dollars, folded, under the key card and wrote “TAXI” in neat block letters on the facing bill. She stirred at that point, and rather than look up the number for her from the yellow pages that surely were in the drawer that didn’t have the Gideon Bible, he decided to get clear while he could.

He left, setting his teeth hard together and not looking back, and it wasn’t until she heard the door closing that Amira realized he didn’t plan on saying goodbye. No longer feigning sleep, she rolled over and looked at the desk, reaching for her glasses on the top of the clothes pile. The clothes. The room key. The cash.

For the first time in a long while, she wept, the silent tears sliding down to splash softly on the sweatshirt she would always think of now as theirs.


	7. Aroused and Confused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarmichael's memories fill in a gap.

Tarmichael sat in his office chair, staring right through his computer screen. He had no idea what he was working on, or where he had left off. His mind was working, turning over and over like a Ford with a bad starter, and getting nowhere. He sighed and then jumped as someone rapped on his door. Almost fearfully, he got up and unlocked the door, opening it a hand’s-breadth.

“So,” Maitland said, peering past him, “You are in there. I was beginning to wonder.”

“Oh, uh, yes,” Tarmichael said, somewhat regretfully opening the door. “I’ve been writing, working on something new, trying to avoid, you know.”

“Distractions?” Maitland asked helpfully.

“Yes, exactly.” Tarmichael sat back in his chair, staring off again. After a moment, he realized that Maitland was still there,

“I’m sorry, Rob, was there something else? I’m kind of busy, you know,” he added, gesturing to the computer.

“Sure, sure.” Maitland looked over is shoulder briefly, and then spoke _sotto voce_ to Tarmichael. “Listen, James, a word of advice: everyone does it, but for God’s sake, man, pull yourself together!”

He continued in a louder, more conversational tone, “Well, I can see you’re swamped. No rest for the wicked, eh? See you around, Tarmichael!”

With that, he was gone, the door closing behind him, leaving a completely unsettled Tarmichael sitting alone once again in his office. He shook his head, and tried yet again to concentrate on his work. He turned back to the computer, and finally noticed that it was still asking for his user ID. He had never logged in today. He lowered his head into his hands, and almost wept.

When he closed his eyes, without warning, he was there, back in the motel. Amira, lay, still clothed except for her shoes and glasses, on top of the covers. He had tried gently shaking her shoulder, her bare shoulder, her perfect shoulder, but all it had done was jiggle her breasts inside the dress and make him back away for a moment, aroused and confused.

She was really out. What should he do? Worse, more sinister and more frightening, what couldn’t he do? His breathing was heavy, his hands trembled, but when he spoke his voice was loud and clear, the professor’s voice, the classroom voice.

“Amira, I need you to wake up. Wake up, girl.” Nothing. Not a change, not a move.

He moved forward, boldly taking her shoulders in his hands and sitting her up. Her head lolled to the side, and her mouth was slightly slack. He could see the even white teeth, the moist lips parted, as her hair fell to one side. If she was going to wake, it should be now, he reasoned.

He held her, and still she slept. Steadying her across the bosom with one arm, he reached behind and unzipped her dress. He waited, almost expecting a scream, a gasp, some reaction of terror and betrayal. Nothing.

In no time, she was stripped of her dress, lying in pale blue satin panties, more conservative in cut than he would have guessed, a strapless white underwired bra, and a pair of thigh-high stockings. It was the stockings that were pushing him over the edge. They were pale, only slightly darker than the untanned skin of her thighs, with a band of lacy elastic at the top, which slightly dimpled the girlish flesh.

As he reached to unroll one stocking, the back of his hand brushed across the pale satin covering her sex, just ever so feather lightly, and she breathed hard, exhaling deeply. He paused, hands in the cookie jar, eyes wide, but she continued her slumber unabated, and he began to work the silk down her leg, fingers gently sliding a few inches under the edge, then rolling down, keeping the stocking from tangling or running. The second stocking followed, even more easily, as if he had done this all his life.

It was then, her bare thighs slightly parted by his actions, the memory of her warmth still in the flesh of his fingertips, in the soft light of the desk lamp’s incandescent bulb, that he saw the scars.


	8. Equally for Weakness and for Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amira and Tarmichael reconnect in his office some time later.

It was almost another week before he saw her again. He’d stopped locking his office door; he’d started sleeping again, poorly. No longer happy in his own skin, he’d stopped trimming his beard and it was coming in unevenly around his jaw, grayer than he had remembered it.

And then, apropos of nothing, he turned around and she was there, perched on the sofa, regarding him through jagged bangs with blue streaks. Her eyes were wide and solemn, and her face gave away nothing.

“Ah, Amira, of course,” he said. What the fuck was that? Of course what? What are you, on crack? Say something coherent. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I expect not,” she said, coldly. The cutting brittle edge sliced at his heart. He could feel the hot lifeblood slipping away, replaced by the vacuum cold of empty space.

“Well, yes. I mean, no.” Christ. He had, in thirty or so seconds forgotten the entire English language. What a prick. “I mean, it’s good to see you again, Amira.”

“Is it?” She cocked her head, and the blue spikes tumbled rigidly aside. Good God, what had she done to her beautiful hair? He prayed that stuff washed out. “Really good? To see me?”

He nodded, without hesitation, honesty the only recourse left to him. Despite all the fear and guilt and paranoia, he had to admit she was still enchanting, and he’d missed her so much.

“I missed you so much,” he said, unaware he was speaking aloud until he saw her reaction.

Her smile was a thunderbolt, a flash of light and heat and suddenly she was across the short distance, her arms around his neck, falling into his lap to send his chair sliding back against the desk. She was all warm and spicy smelling and good, and her nose rubbed his stubbly cheek as she hugged him.

“Oh, James, I missed you, too! So much.”

It was his name that did it. The sound of is proper name, so out of place in her lips, yet so sweet and right to his heart, shook him. He sat stiffly, and she pulled back, fear and doubt on her face as suddenly as had been joy a moment before.

“I guess I shouldn’t do this, should I?”

He shook his head sadly, unable to voice the thought.

She awkwardly stood, unwrapping her arms from around his neck.

“Okay then, Professor Tarmichael,” she said somewhat formally, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow maybe. Or whenever.”

She stood, shifting awkwardly as if needing to go and unable to move at the same time.

He stood, so much taller than she, so close in the small office. He pushed the door fully closed with one hand, never taking his eyes off of her. Licking his dry lips, he said softly to her, “Before I put this very bizarre day behind me...”

“Yes?” Her voice was small, soft, almost lost.

He reached for her. 

“Come here for a minute.”

“Yes?” 

“I'm never going to have another chance to do this, or at least I had better not... so...”

He took her face, gently in both hands, almost reverently.

She looked up, eyes wide and deep and luminous with ancient wisdom as he slid one hand slowly around to the back of her head, and firmly took a twist of hair, slowly pulling down, easing her chin up.

Then, suddenly, firmly, almost violently he pulled her head back, exposing her throat, and planted a hard, biting, passionate kiss along the line of her jaw, halfway between her right ear and her chin, her head almost but not quite cruelly held by his grip on her beautiful dark hair, the blue spikes through his fingers like quills of a peacock feather.

Before the feeling could even raise a gasp in her throat, he was releasing her hair, straightening her face, gently, between his caring tender hands, tracing with his fingertips along her cheeks as he kissed her once, delicately, on that perfect mouth.

“There,” he said warmly, breaking away.

He stretched, and the muscles in his shoulders rolled and cracked softly.

“Thank you.”

Without a word, she left the office, wandered back to her dormitory, and collapsed on her bed. She fell asleep still clothed, still feeling the teeth on her jaw, the brush of lips on hers, and the awesome feeling of surrender when he had lost control for that barest moment.

Not far away, he sat, on the edge of his bed, surrounded by books and papers and half completed projects. He held his head in his hands, and hated himself equally for weakness and for strength.


	9. Bright Busy Anonymity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarmichael helps Amira move. A very brief intermezzo.

Amira loaded the last box into the back of the station wagon. It was a surprising large number of boxes, given then small dorm room she was leaving. Inside each box, everything was carefully swathed in butcher paper and bubble wrap. The container store had been having a sale on bubble wrap, and she had gone somewhat crazy, buying several rolls in different sizes, from tiny blisters that gleamed like fire ant bites, to huge transparent globes that seemed more suitable as terrariums than packing material. So, though the number of boxes was surprisingly large, the weight of each box was jarringly light.

Steffi, suddenly remorseful in light of Amira’s departure, stood sniffling and promising hollowly to stay in touch. Her boyfriend, he of the white briefs and bassoon, stood a few paces back, nodding soberly from the mature advantage of his Senior year.

Without a final word, Amira climbed into the car and closed the door. National Public Radio filled the car as the driver pulled away from the dorms. She heard without listening, and after a few minutes, she reached over to turn off the radio.

“I was listening to that,” Professor Tarmichael said as he pulled the old Volvo wagon into cross-town traffic.

She looked at him, eyes flat and unreadable. Then she reached over, and turned the radio back on. She leaned her head against the window glass, watching the city slip past in bright busy anonymity.

“Sorry,” she murmured after a long count. “Kind of a weird day. Hard to believe I’m really doing this.”

“I understand,” he said soothingly. He reached over to pat her comfortingly, but his hand froze over her thigh, encased in the same vintage purple jeans she wore so often. He looked at her thigh, so firm and lovely under the taught denim, and he tore his glance away, to watch the road with exaggerated care.

“Thank you for everything, Professor T. I just have a lot on my mind,” she said apologetically, unaware of his nodded agreement.


	10. Glorious Liberation to the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarmichael, in flashback, recalls more details from the motel, an untold part of this dark pageant.

He stared at the network of lines, clustered just above the hemline of a short skirt. In the unflattering light of the motel desk lamp, the oldest scars, uneven, hesitant and inconsistent, still showed under the more regular pattern of later scars. The newer cuts were much more methodical, the mastery of method, the external logic of un-sane purpose, the terrifying testament to a damaged girl writing her pain across her own body in blood.

He’d known.

Oh, not that she’d been a cutter, though it fit. He’d known, even when she was his student as a freshman, sitting in the third row, her dark lashes and pale skin taunting him even as her wit and humor seduced him, wrapping him around her finger more skillfully than any gauche coquette. He’d seen, under the wit and the self-doubt, the fragile brilliance, that she was in some way broken inside. She was off. She was damaged.

And that is what had drawn him to her, driven him to make a special effort to mentor her, guide her towards success. She had nearly dropped out, that freshman year, disappeared like so many other fine frail limping things that had fallen under his critical eye. Instead, he had nursed her, nourished her, and cultivated her like a delicate orchid. And now, she lay nearly nude before him, the pain and the weakness and the violence against her own body writ in a fine Pollock of razor blade cuts.

It was too perfect. It wasn’t his fault. He told himself the lie three times, and what he told himself was true. It wasn’t his own weakness that had drawn them together, drawn him to her. It was her desire for destruction, for pain, for loss. She was broken, not he.

He felt his own sudden hardness in his hand, unaware that he had even loosened his belt, reached inside his Dockers. He looked at her lips, so fine, a little tulip of ripe desire, her breasts modest and perfect, her hips rising slightly as she exhaled, writhing in the slow motion of sleep before him, and best of all her thighs.

Her scars sang a song of isolation and doubt and fear, and it was glorious liberation to the darkness of his own heart. He breathed faster, her fragrance stronger than the bleach deodorizer tang of the motel, the stale cigarette smell from the gallery on their clothes, the sweat of his own body.

He closed his eyes, stopped breathing. His hand continued its motion, his body rocking back and forth, knees pressing into the side of the mattress. The oxygen left his blood, his pulse a timpani receding in his ears under the rushing ocean tide of blackout. Deprived of air, of sight, of hope, his body made one last desperate reach for immortality, casting his seed forth like the last light of a dying star.

He stood after, in front of the bathroom mirror, washing his hands with a cheap cloth and dabbing dubiously with the wet towel at spots on his slacks and shirt. Her flesh, the wetness already drying, he would wrap in the sweatshirt he carried in the car for emergencies, which this apparently now was. He would conceal his actions, as he concealed the dark desires inside him.

The shame and guilt were reaching for him, but the cold blackness of his heart shouted them down, drove them whimpering to the corners of his mind. He returned, and found her sighing softly. He slipped her into the sweatshirt, burying his sins beneath the black cotton.

He sat in the chair, and he watched. She was still, amazingly, almost prophetically asleep. He watched one overlooked glistening drop of semen, unnoticed on the corner of her lower lip, slowly drying and losing its luster in the dry cool air. He sat, smiling at his soul’s dark failings; he fell asleep, a guardian devil watching over the damned.


	11. Pop-Pop Pop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amira moves into a loft. There is bubblewrap. Also, dominant/submissive sex. LOTS of bubblewrap.

Unloading had gone so quickly, he’d agreed to stay for the unpacking, even though it meant time with her, alone, in the new loft. He’d been avoiding alone time, generally. He was more afraid of himself than of what might happen.

She, on the other hand, was delighted. She’d missed him, as he’d been both closer and more distant since the moment shared in his office. She didn’t know whether to push or to pull. They tore into the boxes, and soon there were stacked knickknacks and piles of bubble wrap drifting across the hardwood floors.

He stepped on a piece of the bubble wrap, his heel grinding a section to the floor with a sound like a toy machine gun. The “pop-pop pop” startled them both, and the startle led to self-conscious grins and then awkward silence.

As the unwrapping and unboxing progressed, one of them would from time to time pop a piece of bubble wrap. Depending on its size and density, the tiny “pips” and startling “cracks!” added a surreal element to the proceedings, amid a slow rise in the ratio of giggling to work done. As they moved from the kitchenette to the tiny but functional bedroom, the amount of bubble wrap decreased, but by this time they were kicking it along before them in ankle-deep drifts.

Tarmichael took something innocuous, an old t-shirt or something, from one box, and feeling mischievous, immediately blocked it from Amira’s view with his body.

“Well, what have we here” he drawled almost leeringly. He was laying it on thick hoping to appeal to her more paranoid fears. Sure enough, the moment he turned his body away, she was there, leaning, peering, pushing, trying to see around him.

“What? What did you find? Hey! What have you got? Tell me! Come on,” she wheedled, “tell me what you found!”

She began snatching at the item in his hands, which prompted him in the age-old reflex of a boy keeping something from a girl, to use his greater height, literally holding something over her head and grinning wickedly at her. The awkward dance continued around the dresser and bed, growing more ridiculous and outrageous as it went on.

Cornering him between bed and dresser, Amira lunged for the t-shirt, sending Tarmichael falling onto his backside, still laughing. When his bottom hit the ground, a large piece of bubble wrap detonated into the proceedings like a gunshot.

The sound brought them up short, with Amira, still reaching over his head, stretched almost full length across his body on the floor. They paused, nose-to-nose, arms stretching above their heads, for a long moment. She shifted her weight, as if to kiss him or perhaps to speak, and there was another loud pop, which broke the tension in a fit of mutual laughter. They began to tussle back and forth, laughing near tears, crushing the bubble wrap with a series of muffled bangs and pops.

And then suddenly, Tarmichael took her wrists in one strong hand, not hard or mean but firmly, and ran his other hand down her arm to her shoulder, then up to her cheek, brushing the hair way from her face. The feeling of her under his hand, the press of her on his body, the subtle submission of her raised arm posture, were all intoxicating liquor to his senses.

Some time later, surrounded by sweaty streaks across the hardwood and discarded clothing mixed with bubble wrap, he began to chuckle softly. Sweat dampened hair refusing to be blown out of her face, Amira lay across him, her cheek pressed to his sternum, his breathing a rumble in her ear. She swallowed a few times and found her voice.

“What,” she asked exhaustedly, “is so Goddamned funny?”

He looked down at her, unable from his position to meet her eye, and chuckled once more. He gestured weakly to the hard surface he had been banging into for most of the previous, frantic time. It was the frame of her bed.

“We missed the bed,” he said softly, to their mutual and infinite amusement.


	12. Reversal, Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally meet the villain of the piece.

“Hey, Tarmichael, do you have a moment?” Maitland’s voice was almost apologetic, lacking its usual bluster, as he uncomfortably leaned through the doorway of Tarmichael’s office.

The office chair turned around, and Amira, sitting curled in Tarmichael’s office chair, a Tootsie pop in her mouth, grinned at Maitland. “You just missed him. Can I take a message?”

She reached for a pen, still grinning, and leaned over for the pad of paper, showing a gape of cleavage as her sweater pulled across her body. She was entirely aware of the effect, and held the pose for the barest of moments before turning back to her visitor.

“Ah,” Maitland reflexively took a step back, almost exiting the office into the corridor. He looked around, and down, and up again. Meeting her eyes, he again looked down, settling his gaze on a point somewhere around the office desk. “Ah,” he said again. “Miss Masoumeh. No, I, uh, I’ll try again another time, thank you.”

Amira stretched again, levering her legs out straight then sliding them up under herself in Tarmichael’s chair.

“No, Robert, I don’t think you should.”

Maitland stopped, eyes goggling. “Really, Miss Masoumeh, I think it would be best-“

She cut him off, face smiling but eyes deadly cold. “Now Robert. You won’t call me Amira? Even after everything we did together? And once upon a time, I thought I was your favorite little freshman, fresh off the bus and still wondering which side of a man was up. How disappointing.”

“Listen, Miss… Listen, Amira.” Maitland was sweating, but he firmed his resolve and his voice and continued. “Amira, you can’t. Not to Tarmichael. He’s a good man. You can’t play your games with him, please. Just don’t.”

“My games?” The hurt in her voice finally reached her eyes and she pouted crossly. “Games? I like my cuddly little James, Robert. He’s so easily flustered. And best of all, he thinks he has a dark side, a dirty streak. I practically had to smack my naked ass into his hand to get him to spank me. It’s priceless.”

He sighed, and softly pleaded with her. “I’m begging you, Amira. Let him go, before he’s really hurt. He’s not like you, or me. He’ll actually regret what he’s doing.”

“Eventually,” she admitted. She stood, closing the distance between them. He paled, but stood his ground, till she was nose-to-chest with the taller man, looking up through dark lashes into his watery blue eyes. 

“He might regret it.” She nodded thoughtfully, and continued. “He might lose his head completely.”

She cocked her head to one side, pondering, then shrugged.

“But by then I’ll be finished. I’ll have what I want.” She reached forward and grabbed his betraying, stiffening member through his tweed trousers. “And I always get what I want, don’t I, Robert?”

“Yes,” he mumbled weakly, ashamed and aroused and afraid.

“Say it!” she hissed, squeezing.

“Yes, Mistress!” He gasped as she released him, and he backed hurriedly out into the corridor, trying to collect himself and praying no one had seen.

She returned the Tootsie pop to her mouth, and resumed waiting, curled like a cat in Tarmichael’s chair, for her lover’s return.


	13. So Fucking Damaged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denoument- a final flashback to the motel, this time from Amira's point of view.

The motel bedspread was rough beneath her naked back and legs. She’d almost let on, when he was ejaculating over her, that she was awake. The desire to crow and exult, to celebrate the release her body had worked on him, had been so strong. Still, it was worth it for her to remain limp and defiled as he fled to the bathroom to begin hiding the evidence of his weakness.

Once he closed the door, her eyes flew open. She was covered in a fine spray of his seed, not so much as she might have hoped, but a good start. She pushed her naked thighs closed and rubbed them hard together, and immediately the friction, the delicious tickle, began deep in her sex. She raised one wrist to her lips, her tongue darted out to capture what he had left for her, and as it rolled down her tongue into her mouth the orgasm took her. She bucked and shuddered with the white-hot joy of it, eagerly licking up each drop she could reach before she heard him returning, all too soon.

As he struggled her ‘sleeping’ body into his sweatshirt, she dug her nails into her palms to keep from smiling. He was snuffling, almost crying, as he laid her out. He gently kissed her head, and sat, near but not touching, and watched her until he fell asleep. She allowed herself a grin. He was so fucking damaged. This was going to be fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: "Amira Masoumeh," in the Arabic, means "Immaculate Princess" or "Princess without Sin." I do love my irony.
> 
> The trick of this story for me was writing a story where the victim (Amira) turns out to be the villain, the hero (Tarmichael) turns out to be the victim, and the villain (Maitland) may well be the hero. Poor Maitland really does try to save Tarmichael, but his own past weakness is turned against him by a master manipulator.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this. Best, Killjoy.


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